To the Douche in the Dunkin Donuts Drive Thru

drivethruMost weekends, you’ll find me working, on the air, at a local radio station.  No, I can’t get you concert tickets, sweet buttery jesus, please stop asking, I don’t ask you for post-its from your office or free food from your restaurant, so just…NO.  Unless, of course, I can get tickets, then by all means you can have them.  It’s a delicate balance.  But, I digress.

Sunday nights, I work until midnight or later, and in order to sound remotely entertaining and upbeat, my body requires copious amounts of caffeine.  Also, smiling when I talk.  Try that little radio trick when you’re on the phone with someone…it really does perk up your voice.  You’re welcome. Part of my routine includes a quick stop at a Dunkin Donuts about 10 minutes from work.  Generally, my spin through the drive thru rarely garners a second thought, save for a screw up in my order.  Otherwise?  No big.

Last night, like clockwork, I stopped at the speaker to place my order for a medium, iced coffee, made light and sweet.  The kids who work at this DD don’t exactly ooze friendliness, but they’re making peanuts to sling donuts and drinks so my expectations are low.  The kid on the other end of the speaker gives the cursory, “Is that all?”  I assure him I’m all set, and he tells me to drive around.  I say, in a bit of a sing-songy, smiley voice, “Thank you!”  Normally, I’d just continue to the pay window, but because I planned to pay for my coffee with an app, I paused briefly to retrieve my phone from my bag.  During that brief stop, I heard the kid who took my order, totally mock my tone of thanks, and say, “You’re welllcome”, then chuckle as if he was laughing with someone else, at my expense.

Aw hell naw, you just did NOT do that, dude.

Just a few years ago, something so minor might send me to tears.  But this day, DD Drive thru douche was about to hear from me.  I drove to the window and said, “Are you the guy I talked to at the speaker?”  He took a coy, slouched stance to get a better look at me and said, “Maybe,” with a shit eating grin that told me he probably thought I was hitting on him.

“That was a total dick move, dude.”
“Huh?” He looked super confused, like, why is the hot cougar not hitting on me and holy shit is someone actually calling me out on something I’ve done because HOW DARE YOU.
“I totally heard you mock me back there, saying ‘You’re welcome!’ in the same tone I said thank you.  Not cool.”
“Are you sure that’s what you heard?”
“Um, yeah.  I’m sure.”
“Because we’ve been having problems with our speaker and people think they’ve heard weird things but, uh, it’s just a weird thing…”
“I know what I heard. That was a total dick move, dude.  Have a good day.”

Here’s the thing.  I come from a long line of black sheep ball busters, so I can take it as much as I dish it out.  On some level, I respect someone who has a quippy sense of humor and commend him on his technique and almost perfectly replicated pitch of my tone.  Well done.  I’m not necessarily upset that he outwardly mocked me, but that when confronted about it, he totally recoiled, like a scared little penis at the sight of water.  A topic I’m sure he knows a little something about.  See, kid, that’s the risk with such behavior, and hopefully you’ll learn this lesson sooner rather than later.  If you get busted, OWN YOUR SHIT.  Don’t deflect and pretend it’s a technological malfunction, because then, whatever points you earned for being witty go down the crapper, and now I just see you for what you really are, a tiny almost-man, who in the face of confrontation would just as well hide behind something as a shield than take your licks like a grown up.  That’s bad form.

This whole scenario should serve you, my douchey friend, as a nice little life lesson, wrapped in a casing of shut the hell up and be nice to people, jerkface, and if you’re going to mock someone, for the LOVE OF GOD, do it away from a live microphone, take it from me, the lady on the radio, I know from experience. So, what I’m saying here is, do your goddamned job and make fun of people on your own time.

The Diary of my Part Time Cat

When I rented my house, my landlord asked, in exchange for a reduction in rent, would I feed the stray cat who lived under the deck.  Of course, I agreed.  I established a regular routine ofcat placing a bowl of food outside, and cat seemed satisfied.  One rainy night, like something out of an ASPCA commercial, complete with Sarah McLachlan
serenading in the background, he sat outside the back door, meowing to be let in.  Oh, he layed it on thick, enough that I was compelled to allow him into the house, and into our lives.

He’s a vocal cat, a tiny little dictator of sorts, which inspired us to name him Chairman Meow.  He comes and goes as he pleases, and there are times I’d hear him scribbling, but I never paid much attention to it.  Turns out, he’s kept a diary of his daily comings and goings. (What? He left it open on the kitchen floor.  Was I just supposed to NOT look at it?  Of course I did.) Apparently, the good Chairman has much on his little mind.

An excerpt from his journal…

September 15th, 2013

Infiltrated the nest.  God, humans are easy.  A handful of meows and a slight tilt in my head to let the few drops of rain run down my nose and they are putty in my paws.  Targeting tiny, boy human.  Food status: mediocre but consistent. 

September 17th, 2013

Lady human loves me. Of course she does…I’m adorable. She thinks it’s a hoot when I meow after she talks, so, I’ll just go with that and see how far it gets me.  

September 20th, 2013

So, today, lady human was talking to me in this crazy, idiotic, high pitched voice, when she produced this tiny, metallic bag.  She shook it, still talking to me about some nonsense.  No, lady…no idea what the fuck is in the bag.  Why don’t you show me.  Then she sprinkled something on the floor that looked like food, but OMG, they’re SO good.  Good enough to endure her shrieking?  Jury is still out.

October 1st, 2013

It’s been a while since my last entry for a few reasons.  First, I decided to explore a bit.  Found boy human’s sleeping space, and damn if it isn’t comfortable.  And, unlike the lady human and girl human, he’s quiet.  And still.  Nice place to nap.  I tried letting someone know I needed to get the hell out of dodge this morning, but my meows fell on deaf ears. Taking a shit on a pile of clothes left on the bathroom floor seemed to get their attention.  It also got me banished from the house temporarily.  Note to self, don’t shit on their stuff.  Humans don’t like that.  Meh, whatever.

October 3rd, 2013

HOLYCRAAAAAAAAAPLADYHUMANGAVEMEATOYANDITSMELLLLSSOOOOOOOOGOOODZOMGGG

October 5th, 2013

Dude.  Cat Nip bender and I lost a few days.  No idea what happened.  All blank, except for waking up on my side and feeling the urge to kick the crap out of whatever was touching my feet.  That’s all I remember.

You Think You Won’t Miss the Snoring

I haven’t shared many details of my divorce with anyone outside of my therapist’s office, mainly because droning on about the end of your marriage elicits a similar reaction to when you swipe left one too many times looking through someone’s pictures on their phone, and you see far too much of Linda and her penchant for nudie Judy’s, and, well, suffice to say listening to someone’s divorce story is a lot like seeing your friend Linda’s naked ass.

Exposed, uncomfortable, and a stark reminder that maybe your own goddamned life isn’t so bad.

The only thing worse than talking about the demise of your marriage is the aftermath, which, at a certain age, likely includes online dating.  Fresh, new, interesting men don’t just flutter into my life like they did in my 20’s, when I met new people on the regular.  At 40, I’m lucky I’m not wearing the same pair of yoga pants for 3 days in a row, and the highlight of my week is making some domestic discovery (this week: Downy UnStoppables.  HOLY. SHIT. They are perhaps the greatest invention of our time) or organizing the crap out of some crevice of my car.

I enjoyed alphabetizing the paperwork in my glove compartment far more than a human should.

But, here I am. And sure, companionship would be lovely.  To include someone in my life, and share the minutia of my day, maybe grab a drink or dinner and a movie on the weekends, someone to hole up with on the couch to explain to me the ridiculousness that is Game of Thrones, to play Twister on some idle Thursday evening, or someone to annoy me with their snoring.

Not a lot. Truly.  Just something, nothing short of a John Hughes plot line.

Dating at 40, so far, equates to learning to drive a stick shift.  It seems so daunting at first, juggling the gas and brake and clutch, then you start to get the hang of it on a nice flat surface, then you get a little cocky and try climbing a hill from a dead stop, then everything goes to hell.  And, you quit briefly, but you try again and you’re so goddamned determined to get it right because there must be some magic, somewhere in the whole process.

I’ve met the married guy, who wanted to “see what else was out there” before he made the decision about staying in his marriage or not.  I went on a few dates with a guy who flatly refused to talk on the phone.  Any and all communication between us happened via text, which made for a shitty dating experience, but hilarious screenshots to my friends.  Then there was the guy, with whom I hit off immediately, who disappeared off the face of the Earth, never to be heard from again, I thought, until he contacted me a few weeks later, and when confronted with his odd disappearance, explained he needed to take periodic respites “probably because of (his) complex personality.”

Y’all, I can’t make this shit up.

It’s a weird thing you learn when you’re married for a long time, then suddenly not, that while the sound of your former partner person breathing sent you into fits of rage that would make Alec Baldwin take pause, you simultaneously miss the sounds and warmth and proximity of another human being.  After fighting so hard to be single, you realize how much you miss some of the very things that annoyed the living shit out of you when you were married.  This was an unexpected side effect of divorce.

Sure, there are lonely days. but what I’ve learned in the absence of a partner is how to take an honest look at my existence, and acknowledge how good my life really is.  Like, really good.  I fill my time with a job I love, creating shenanigans and memories with my kiddos, reconnecting with old friends, annoying the crap out of my sister and parents, and rediscovering the joy of eating pizza rolls sans pants.  Wait, what?

In the end, I don’t need someone with whom to share my Hot Pockets, although that is a nice thought, so, in the meantime, I’ll just patiently wait for someone amazing to fall into my lap.  Until then, there’s always Linda.